


feels like my life led right to your side

by lavenderseaslug



Category: Holby City
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-16
Updated: 2017-02-16
Packaged: 2018-09-24 19:17:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9781310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavenderseaslug/pseuds/lavenderseaslug
Summary: Five times Bernie comes to Serena's house (or another, cleverer summary)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Just another cool little five times fic. Takes into account 19x19
> 
> Title from "I Can Do Better Than That" from _The Last Five Years_

_o1._

Serena calls in sick, the first time Bernie can ever remember her doing so. She sounds sniffly on the telephone, her voice almost thick with phlegm. She apologizes profusely, which Bernie ignores, only urges her to rest, feel better. She offers to pick Jason up, take him home, and gratefulness is evident in Serena’s voice. After they hang up, Bernie’s phone buzzes again, Serena’s address sent in a text.

She and Jason get into her car, and she patiently answers his question about the engine in her car, retracts the roof so he can see it in motion, shows him how to move the passenger seat to make room for his long legs. They drive to a Tesco’s first, Jason’s idea. He wants to buy hand sanitizer for himself, and perhaps an aerosol disinfectant for the home. Bernie decides to buy things with a slightly more comforting bent. She picks up orange juice, microwaveable soup, and a bag of spicy crisps. When her nose was stuffed as a girl, her father would always give her a bag of them, to clear out her sinuses, he’d say. To this day, Bernie still finds comfort in them, and can only hope Serena feels the same.

They pull up in front of Serena’s home and Jason hops out, not waiting for Bernie before entering the house. She grabs the bags from the back seat, locks the car, and follows him in. She takes her shoes off in the front hall, walks into the living room. Jason is already spraying the air, and Bernie smiles. She sees tissues littered about, a few empty coffee mugs on the table, and starts to clean without thinking.

No one that knows Bernie Wolfe would think for a minute that she was domestic in any sense, but right now, in this moment, she feels a pull to make Serena’s house look nice. Jason tells her the garbage bin is under the sink, and Bernie, arms laden with used Kleenex, finds her way into the kitchen. She pops the soup in the microwave, searches through the cabinets until she finds the bowls, continuing her search until she locates the glassware. She puts the crisps in a bowl, pours out some orange juice, and waits for the microwave to beep that it’s finished. Then the soup is transferred to a bowl, and Bernie again digs through the kitchen, this time to find a tray.

Laden with the best she can do in regards to comfort food, Jason directs Bernie up the stairs, to the room at the end of the hall. He warns her against going into his room and she assures him that she wouldn’t dream of disturbing his things. She lightly taps on Serena’s closed door, hears nothing on the other side. She taps once more, a little louder, and then, with the tray balanced precariously in one hand, against her hip, she maneuvers the door open.

Serena is a lump on the bed, bundled beneath a duvet and blankets. Bernie sees more evidence of nose-blowing all around her, littering the floor. She sets the tray down carefully, quietly, and begins to tidy in this room as well. She hears a rustle of covers as she picks up the last few tissues, and Serena’s head, untidier than Bernie’s ever seen it, emerges from underneath the quilt.

“Bernie?” she asks, sounding confused, congested. “Did I know you were going to be here?” She pushes the covers down, slides to an almost-sitting position. Bernie smiles, a stilted, half-smile.

“No, just dropped Jason off, thought you might need some seeing-to, that’s all. Can’t have you missing many more days of work, Campbell.” She wants to sit on the edge of the bed, but it feels too familiar. They are friends, yes, but Bernie suddenly worries they aren’t close enough to merit this kind of attention. “There’s soup. Juice. Crisps.” She gestures lamely at the tray on Serena’s bedside table.

“Crisps?” Serena’s voice is curious, and she reaches for the juice, taking a deep sip.

“Just. Just something my dad would get me when I was sick,” Bernie says, and Serena’s face transforms, softens, and she’s looking at Bernie so sweetly that Bernie feels her chest clench, tight and hot. Serena sets her glass down and picks up the bowl of crisps, nibbles daintily at the edge.

“Quite a kick to them, eh?” she says, popping the rest of it in her mouth with a smile. Her face is bare of make-up, decorated with the lines imprinted from the wrinkles in the sheets, and Bernie can’t quite believe she gets to see this side of Serena.

“Clear out your nose. Hope it’ll do the trick.” Bernie almost wishes Serena had stayed asleep, can’t think of what to say, doesn’t know how to leave. She fidgets a little, rubs her hands together, twists her fingers. “Well. You need rest. Jason’s downstairs. He’s disinfected the whole of it, and will most certainly make me hand-sanitize before I leave. If you need anything….” She trails off, stands and brushes away an imaginary crease in the duvet. “Feel better,” she says, and turns to leave, hand on the door before Serena calls out.

“Bernie?” Her eyes are still soft and full of some kind of emotion that Bernie recognizes but doesn’t want to name. “Thank you.”

 

_o2._

Bernie finds herself invited to dinner at the Campbell residence. Serena notices that Bernie doesn’t bring proper lunches, and doesn’t buy proper meals from Pulses. She clucks that Bernie will become even bonier than she already is, and Bernie doesn’t know how to protest, doesn’t know how to explain that it’s sometimes difficult to find the energy to make dinner for one.

Serena’s solution is to mask the dinner invitation by insisting that Jason was just asking if Bernie would come over and watch World’s Strongest Man with him, that he was interested in her perspective on it, as a military woman. Bernie suspects this isn’t exactly a lie, but is also reasonably sure that Jason would survive quite well without Bernie coming over to watch some blokes carry heavy logs around.

Bernie doesn’t mind, though. She admits, to herself at least, that she’d like to experience Serena as a hostess, feels sure she’’s as warm and welcoming in her own home as she is on AAU, the picture of perfect patient care. Serena apologizes in advance for it being fish and chips night, says she’ll work in a veg side somewhere, and Bernie smiles, because she knows Serena’s worried that she’s not getting enough nutrients. This concern, this care, it makes Bernie feel something she hasn’t felt since her marriage began to dissolve. Another person worrying about her, day-to-day. Alex worried about Bernie, about the dangers of the field, but never thought about what Bernie ate in the mess hall or if she got enough sleep at night. These are the things Serena notices, remembers.

Bernie follows Serena’s car, first to the fish and chips shop, then to Serena’s house. She parks in front again, and waits for Serena and Jason to emerge from the garage. They walk into the house together, Bernie slightly behind them, lagging. She slips her shoes off in the front hall again, a habit she’s kept from childhood, and Serena says nothing, lines her shoes right next to Bernie’s as if she did it every day of her life.

Jason goes off to the living room, fiddles with the remote, gets World’s Strongest Man all queued up. Serena plates the food in the kitchen, and Bernie watches her, eyes tracking every movement, trying to memorize this domesticity. Serena sets the curry dipping sauce on Bernie’s plate, gives her cloth napkins to take with her back to the couch, shoos her from the kitchen, admonishes her not to keep Jason waiting.

Once settled on the couch, Jason presses play, and the show starts up. Bernie doesn’t think she’s ever seen an episode of this, isn’t exactly sure her life as been lacking in any way, but Jason’s enthusiasm for it pulls her along, and soon she’s picked her own favorite, rooting for him loudly despite Jason’s ridicule that she’s picked a losing horse. Serena joins them, pushes a glass of wine into Bernie’s hand, sets a plate of steamed broccoli between them, two forks resting on the plate.

Bernie dutifully picks up a fork, spears a floret, and promptly dunks it in the curry sauce. Serena rolls her eyes, and Bernie can’t help but smile around her mouthful of broccoli. It’s too easy, she thinks, to bait Serena. She also thinks she’ll never tire of it, of teasing out that exasperated look that’s tinged with deep affection. Serena picks up the other fork, and they take turns eating off the plate, and it all feels intimate to Bernie, sharing a dish. She’s distracted from the television, only Jason’s gentle prodding bringing her back to it.

When they’ve finished, Bernie helps Serena bring the dishes into the kitchen, then is nudged out of the way so Serena can load the dishwasher to her specific standards. Bernie swipes one cold chip off the plate before Serena pushes it all into the trash, and munches on it idly, then rubs the grease off on her trousers.

“Could’ve used a napkin,” Serena says, shaking out the item in question over the sink, dislodging crumbs. Bernie shrugs with one shoulder.

“I’ve got to give my washing machine something to do,” she offers with a smile, and Serena barks out a chuckle at that. Bernie blushes with pride at that, loves surprising a laugh out of Serena, loves seeing that happiness on her face. There’s more to it, Bernie knows, but she’s still unwilling to examine it too closely, is satisfied, for the moment, to just know that she likes making Serena smile, and doesn’t need to think about why that is.

They putter unnecessarily around the kitchen together for a bit, Bernie worrying the corner of a napkin, Serena fiddling with the cutlery drawer, straightening things that do not need to be straightened. She likes this closeness, Bernie thinks, they both do. They’re unwilling to let it go easily, when they have it. So often, they get interrupted, even if they aren’t doing anything important. Being together is what matters. Bernie catches Serena’s hand, holds it for one, two, three, ten seconds, holds her breath for just as long.

“Thanks,” she says, quietly. “For dinner.” Serena’s face is flushed, her body arced towards Bernie’s, and Bernie isn’t sure she’s even aware of it.

“I’ll bring you lunch tomorrow,” Serena promises, a little breathlessly and Bernie stops herself from pressing a kiss to Serena’s cheek.

 

_o3._

Jason is away for the weekend, a detail Serena mentions at work before insisting Bernie come over for the night - for both nights, if she wants. Bernie, flushed and happy to be the recipient of this invitation, can only accept, stops in at her flat just long enough to pack a bag for the weekend, look ruefully at a long-dead plant in the windowsill and the sink full of dirty dishes. She’s spent more time at Serena’s place than her own lately, and this no longer feels like a home, just a stopover until she’s in the place she really wants to be.

Serena opens the door before Bernie can even knock, pulls Bernie inside quickly, and Bernie is giddy with the sensation of being wanted by Serena Campbell. They’re kissing against the door, the door knob sure to leave an imprint in her hip, but Bernie’s arms are full of Serena and nothing else really seems to matter.

This is still new, for both of them. They feel the bubble of newly affirmed love and affection. They are caught up in each other, in their closeness. Bernie thinks they practically telegraph it at work, their shoulders always bumping, not even a whisper of space between them as they consult on patients or share a coffee. Might as well have a neon sign over their heads, flashing the announcement that they’re sleeping together.

They do actually sleep together a fair amount, pressed against each other in bed. Bernie wakes up warm and snug, her nose pressed into Serena’s neck, her scent filling Bernie’s nostrils. They move very little in the night, Bernie because she’s used to a small cot, and Serena because once she’s found a comfortable spot, she plants herself. The only time they shift is if they fall asleep, separated, their bodies gravitating towards each other in the dark, fixing their mistake. Bernie didn’t sleep closely with Marcus. She wonders if it was because he was always insistent on spooning behind her, a position that often left her feeling trapped, caged. She makes sure Serena doesn’t feel that way; when she asks, Serena laughs loudly and pulls Bernie’s arm around her, entwines their fingers. “You could never trap me, Berenice Wolfe, not when I’m here willingly,” she says.

Bernie kisses Serena with gusto, with certainty. Serena matches her intensity, her hands busily unbuttoning Bernie’s top, pushing it to the floor. Bernie’s mouth moves to Serena’s jaw, to her earlobe, to her neck. She unbuttons the fly on Serena’s trousers, turns Serena around so her back is pressed to Bernie’s front, and Bernie slides her hand down the front of Serena’s pants, feels the wetness pooled there. She rests her chin on Serena’s shoulder, Serena’s hands against the wall, her mouth open, breath coming in gasps. “This all right?” Bernie asks and Serena nods, her mouth still gaping. They’re rough, sometimes, but they always face each other - this is new, too.

Bernie unclasps her own bra, pulls Serena’s shirt over her head, presses bare flesh to bare flesh, lets her hands make their way around to Serena’s front, one caressing her breast through the silkiness of her bra, the other back into her pants, pushing aside the sodden fabric, sliding into Serena’s heat. She nips at the vein in Serena’s neck, pushing her fingers into Serena as she does, and Serena awkwardly tries to thrust into them, moving her hips, wanting more. Bernie adds a third finger and Serena shudders. She uses her thumb, circling Serena’s clit, matching its movements with her other hand on Serena’s breast. Serena’s rested her face against one hand, her neck turned, and Bernie places a wet, open-mouthed kiss to wide plane of Serena’s back. She twists her fingers just so and Serena comes with a soft gasp, biting at her lip, and Bernie tries her best to memorize this sight, then moves away from Serena, wiping her hand on her trousers, picking up their shirts, a tangled pile on the floor.

“That was...different,” Serena says, but she doesn’t sound upset. She’s still resting her head against her hand, her cheeks red. Bernie doesn’t know what that means, though, so she busies herself with folding her shirt, locating her bra from where she tossed it behind her. Serena finally moves then, stops Bernie from moving with her hands on Bernie’s face. “I liked it,” she says, looking Bernie straight in the eyes, making her look back. “Now let’s get upstairs so I can return the favor.”

Bernie doesn’t remember dropping the clothes back to the floor, but she must have, because Serena laughingly tells her to bring them along, that they might as well hang them up so they’ll be in reasonably good condition if they go to get takeaway later. Bernie follows orders from Serena just as well as she did from her commanding officer, and trails Serena upstairs, shirts in hand, bra hanging from her index finger.

They don’t end up getting dinner, that night. “You’re contributing to my lack of proper nutrition,” Bernie says, when they’re tangled up in bed, the sheets pushed down to the foot, the duvet pulled over them instead.

“I’ll make it up to you in the morning. Extra helping of grapefruit, no chocolate croissant,” Serena says sleepily, craning her neck for a kiss from Bernie before letting her eyes close, squeezing her hand, leaving their fingers entwined as she falls asleep.

 

_o4._

“You will come round later, though?” The words, an olive branch, echo in Bernie’s head as she walks towards Serena’s door. She has a key to Serena’s place by now, Jason insisted upon it, saying that it was often disruptive to have her ring the doorbell, that sometimes he had to pause his program to answer the door if Serena was unavailable. It didn’t seem like a big gesture at the time, just something to make their lives easier. Serena makes sure to say that it doesn’t mean Bernie has to live there, or even use the key, if it makes her uncomfortable or if it was too much, but Bernie just smiles and adds the key to her carabiner without another thought.

But it’s been a while since she’s been to Serena’s, been a while since she’s used her key. She raises her hand to knock, but Jason opens the door before she can make contact. “I saw your car pull up,” he says, and Bernie smiles at him. She hasn’t seen him since everything happened. He looks at her sadly, and she reaches out to hug him, giving him enough time to pull away if he wants, but he welcomes her embrace, allows her to envelop him. She always was good at giving hugs, even if she was stingy with them. She pours herself into them, everything she doesn’t know how to say. Bernie feels wetness against her neck and pulls back. Jason’s eyes are damp, and she brushes away the tears with her thumb. Just like when her children were little and skinned their knee, she thinks. How she wishes this could all be fixed with a kiss and a band-aid.

“Let’s go into the living room, shall we?” she says, and she feels like her voice is too loud for the house, but Jason says nothing, only leads her further into the home. Serena’s sitting at the dining room table, staring at nothing, her phone next to her on the table, face down. Bernie wonders if she’s called Edward again. Jason sits heavily on the couch, sighing. Bernie doesn’t know who to take care of first, decides Jason is the easier option, coaxes him to put on an episode of Countdown, offers to order some food for him. She calls the local pub, offers extra if they’ll deliver tonight, and soon enough, a steaming jacket potato with bacon and Stilton is on a plate in front of Jason. She hands him a fork and a cloth napkin, remembering her first dinner in this home so long ago now.

Jason seen to, Bernie moves to Serena, comes behind her, places a kiss on the crown of her head. “All right?” she murmurs before pulling out the chair next to her and sitting down. Serena looks at Bernie, an emptiness in them that Bernie is familiar with, but not used to.

“Thanks for getting Jason dinner. I tried to go grocery shopping but I just. I just couldn’t.” She looks down helplessly and Bernie reaches for her hand, lets Serena clasp them together.

“We can go tomorrow,” Bernie says softly, offering her own olive branch. When Serena looks at her again, there’s a spark in her eyes, because Bernie’s going to be here tomorrow, and Bernie knows that she’s done something right. She smooths Serena’s hair, then stands, pulling Serena up with her. “Let’s go upstairs,” she says. “Jason’s all right, he’s all right.”

Bernie undresses Serena, puts the clothes in the hamper, treats the stain on her sleeve with a detergent stick Serena keeps in the bathroom cabinet. She knows these rooms well by now. She nudges Serena to the shower, turns the water on hot, scalding. She makes a hot water bottle for them each, is returning to the bedroom as Serena is toweling herself off. Bernie opens the top drawer of the bureau, her drawer, and slips into her pajamas, an old sweatshirt and a pair of shorts. Serena does the same, a silken nightgown.

The room is dark as they both get into bed, and Bernie holds Serena close, wishes there was some way to fix everything, so desperately wants to see Serena smile again, without a flash of guilt following it. It’s hard to be happy in grief, Bernie knows, but she also knows that it’s the only way to get through it. She feels Serena shake in her arms and gently presses a kiss to her temple, unsure of what to say.

“No crying today,” Serena says, though tears are already collecting in her eyelashes, and Bernie just holds on tight, an anchor to Serena, keeping her from flying into pieces.

“It’s okay to cry,” she says. “Cry as much as you need.” She doesn’t cry, not much. Cries more out of frustration than anything else. She feels sad, deeply and awfully, but dams it all up, has the stiff upper lip so prized by the British people. She’s envious of Serena’s emotion, of her willingness to feel, but doesn’t say so, just hugs Serena tightly, feels her heart ease ever so slightly as Serena’s arms come up, her hands resting on Bernie’s forearms, squeezing her back.

“Are you staying?” Serena asks, her voice tremulous and small, and Bernie feels her heart break all over again.

“As long as you need,” she promises, kissing her temple once more.

  
_o5._

Serena needs help packing and sorting, says she needs Bernie’s utilitarian advice on things. Bernie jokingly suggests Serena try the Marie Kondo style of packing and Serena just stares blankly at her. “How do you know Marie Kondo?” she asks and Bernie wracks her brain, trying to think just where that knowledge came from. She sidesteps the question by holding Serena by the arms for several seconds, then declaring Serena brings her joy. “Does that mean I get to stay?” Serena says wryly and Bernie nods, buoyed by her good mood.

Serena is making room for Bernie to move in, is clearing out space in the closet, in the bureau, in the bathroom cabinet. She’s found room on bookshelves and in the small DVD cabinet, even in the kitchen, finally willing to part with hideous wedding gifts she’s only kept out of an odd sense of obligation.

Bernie’s got a set of cookware she bought after splitting with Marcus, her independence cooking set - that’s how she thinks of it. She brings that with her, it’s barely used, but it’s expensive and nice, and Serena’s had her eye on it since staying over at Bernie’s one night. Bernie has cookie cutters that belonged to her mother, the blender she bought in university that still makes margaritas just as well now as it did all those years ago. Serena finds space for all these things, shows her the tin where they keep all the cookie cutters, makes sure she’s okay with them mingling together. “They’re not the only thing that’s mingling,” Bernie says under her breath, a smirk on her face.

Serena has an obscene amount of flowy blouses and Bernie can’t understand it. They all look identical, except for the colors. She loves Serena in bright colors, in patterns. She tells Serena to get rid of the drab ones, the browns and mauves. Bernie’s clothes are mostly blacks and whites and greys, all the colors she doesn’t want in Serena’s wardrobe, Serena points out, but Bernie just shrugs, doesn’t have any logic to offer. She just hangs up her white button-ups and her black tops, sets them right alongside Serena’s clothes, as if they’d always hung next to each other.

The bathroom cabinet has been divided, all of Serena’s things shoved to the right side, same as the side of the bed that she sleeps on. There are tubes of lipstick, mascara, small compacts, brushes. The hallmarks of femininity. Her perfume lingers in the air, a slightly spicy smell that Bernie can’t get enough of. The things she uses in the morning don’t take up nearly half the cabinet and she tells Serena she can have more room. Serena rolls her eyes at that, says that one day old age will catch up with Bernie Wolfe and that she’ll need to use the cabinet and then some just to look presentable. Bernie only laughs and slides her arms around Serena, looking at their reflection in the bathroom mirror. They both look happy, she thinks, content. She didn’t know if they’d ever get here.

Elinor’s room - it will always be Elinor’s room - is empty now. It’s storage, for the things Serena doesn’t need in the bedroom, or the living room, or the study, but can’t quite part with. There’s a box of Elinor’s things from childhood, school awards, art projects. Bernie knows Serena goes through the box on the hard days, gently touching the old photos of her daughter, smiling widely despite gaps in her mouth where she’d just lost teeth. Bernie sits with her sometimes, listens to Serena tell stories of her headstrong daughter who made the tree in the school play a starring role because she refused to be relegated to scenery.

Everything isn’t easy, and it isn’t always pleasant. Their arguments at home can bleed over into work - forgetting to buy groceries can earn a dig about whether or not they’ll forget to order important tests too - and vice versa. A missed report means that Serena lectures Bernie on paying bills on time, knowing full well that Bernie is much more fastidious about those things than she is. But they catch themselves, when they’ve allowed the line between personal and professional to bleed too much. Bernie will smile the tight smile she reserves for work situations and Serena gives her a light caress on the arm, nothing out of the ordinary for the woman who bestows gentle touches to everyone she meets.

Moving into Serena’s house isn’t much of a trial. Bernie has been leaving things there for months, now, her laundry mixing in with Serena’s. Jason makes note of the fact that they run out of milk much faster now, despite the fact that they’re still technically a two-person home, and Bernie takes that as an implication that she should both be better about buying milk and that Jason thinks it’s silly that she doesn’t officially live here.

Serena never asks Bernie to move in, it just sort of happens. She asks why Bernie still keeps a flat, when she’s spent the night at Serena’s for the last fortnight, and Bernie is poleaxed, not quite able to find a reasonable answer to the question. “I’ll talk to the landlord tomorrow,” she says, and that’s that. She knew there was a good reason that she’d just leased month-to-month. She gets her full security deposit back, ignores the landlord’s comment that it looks like it’s barely been lived in, and turns in her keys.

The last time Bernie comes to Serena’s home is the first time she comes to their home. 


End file.
